...is that I'm too attached to my dearest Kari. I'm not sure I could survive without her. And that's not good. I've been reading a good deal of Buddhist philosophy in the last two years and I know that grasping after things, including people, will eventually cause suffering. Because things are impermanent. Everything changes, everything dies. Our relationship is the best and most stable thing in my life--in my entire life--but it will end one of these days. Most likely through her or my death. And somehow I need to find a way to suppress my fear of losing her.

Looks like I haven't blogged since January, so a quick update is in order. Since that time, my grandfather, my last living grandparent, made it to his 90th birthday, then died within a week. I briefly worked a temp job that miraculously paid almost as much as what I had been making at my previous job. After six full-time days, they cut all the new temps down to part-time, which was great, and told us that they would be "right-sizing" in a couple of months. I wasn't digging the work and was hoping I'd get laid off again. What a difference from two years ago when I went into a fetal position after being cut loose. They did lay me off but offered me another position, at a lower salary, which I declined. My mother has continued to see some joker who asked her to marry him, then broke up with her via text message a couple of days later while she was mulling it over. After a long while, he started emailing and texting her as if nothing had happened. He has a problem with gay people and routinely uses words like "fag" and "dyke," which my mother repeats to me, not aware that straight people really shouldn't use those words to gay people. I've maintained a daily yoga practice, am meditating with regularity, journaling, doing self-Reiki and getting it done to me, and generally trying like hell to make some positive changes in myself. I'm also more and more grateful to the wonderful perfect woman with whom I make my home. She's given me 12 easy years full of love, laughter, romance, excellent conversation, wise counsel, support of every kind, and oodles of happiness. I'm kooky for her. And that's what's been happening, in a nutshell.

January 7, 2011 was a very strange day.  It would have been my grandmother's 90th birthday.  It was Kari's mom's birthday.  Two of my first cousins, on either side, celebrate their birthdays on that day. 

And on the afternoon of January 7, my other grandmother died.   She was my dad's mother and I hadn't seen her in years.  She and my grandfather lived down the street from us until I was 15, when they moved to Florida.

In the intervening 28 years, I've only seen them maybe five or six times.  I'm one of 19 grandchildren on that side and I've always felt that they didn't care for me.  And I felt that way even before I came out of the closet. 

My grandfather was a preacher for many years.  He worked a day job in one of the many chemical plants in the Charleston area and on nights and weekends pastored a small church in the coalfields.  He never went to seminary or had formal training.  He felt a calling when he was a young man and has devoted his life to his faith. He's now a deacon in the Southern Baptist tradition.

My grandmother was the mother of eight children, but she must have shared his calling, because she accompanied him to his church and was a devoted minister's wife.

I didn't know her that well.  She was a laconic woman.  When I was in high school, my dad and I would go out at the ungodly time of 7 am on Saturday mornings to have breakfast with his parents.  Getting up that early about killed my adolescent body and I'd have to come home and sleep for several more hours afterwards. But I enjoyed going out there and am grateful that I had that time with them.

During these breakfasts, she would take me into her kitchen and show me how to cook.  Not being interested in cooking, I didn't pay much attention.  And not being much of a talker when I was younger, I failed to ask her all the questions I would like to ask her now.  What were you like as a child?  Did you ever actually want to be a minister's wife?  Have you been happy?

It's too late now. 

For many years, I felt hurt and defensive that this set of grandparents didn't seem to like me.  Then, as an adult, I felt guilty that I hadn't even tried to cultivate a relationship with them.  As they had done, I failed to even send birthday and Christmas cards.

I've been debating for several years about whether I would go to their funerals.  My mother put some pressure on me back in December, when my grandmother's health started to fail.  I told her that I felt that it was okay for me not to go, especially since I was in a very vulnerable emotional state at that time (more on that later) and I'm not well liked or accepted by my dad's family, with the exception of a few cousins and one of his brothers.  I think it's partly to do with my being gay and partly (maybe mostly?) to do with my failure to meet my father's wife. 

A situation that I've made steps to fix.  I told him in August that I would meet her.  I sent a Christmas card addressed to the whole family.  I sent cookies to their house for Christmas.  All of which are HUGE for me.  I know that until I can get over this thing---whatever it is about my dad marrying this particular woman---that I won't know peace. 

Ironically, my dad hasn't taken any steps to get us together.  In fact, when he was first making the plans to drive to Florida, it appeared that his wife would not be able to make it.  So Dad offered to let me ride down with him.  Then, when it appeared that she was going to go, he told me not to feel obligated to go to the funeral, that there were many other grandchildren who wouldn't be there. 

I'm not sure what's going on.  I may have let this thing go on past the point of redemption.

As far as my grandmother goes, however, I do feel a measure of peace.  I had a Reiki treatment on the day of her funeral.  At the exact time, actually.  She had been on my mind for days and I had been trying to really feel okay with not seeing her off.  By the end of the session, I felt that I had forgiven her for not loving me and forgiven myself for not having tried to have a relationship with her.

And here's a crazy story about the funeral: One of my dad's brothers is a quadriplegic and lives in CA.  He and his wife and a nurse flew in to Orlando on Monday night, the night before the funeral.  They rent a handicapped van, someone doesn't hook my uncle into the wheelchair properly, his wife is driving, and rear ends someone on the interstate.  Not only did they not make it to the funeral, they never even reached the hotel.

So initially the doctors say my uncle has broken his neck.  Then they say, "Wait. It's not his neck;  he has two broken legs."  Not sure how one could mix up "broken neck" with "broken legs," but whatever.

So he's in a hospital in Orlando and they can't operate for six weeks.  It's not good news;  he's been a quad for about 20 years and he's medically pretty fragile.  Plus, he's 3000 miles from his home.  My grandfather lives in Ocala, which is where the funeral was held, so there was much driving back and forth to the hospital.

And if for no other reason than that one---drama and crisis---I'm glad I was up here, sending my grandma off with kind and forgiving thoughts and recognizing that, as with my other grandparents, a part of her will always be a part of me.

A year ago today I took my grandmother shopping for the last time.  She had always been a whirlwind in the streets of Charleston and in the malls.  No matter my age, my phsyical fitness or the number of sitting rests I took outside fitting rooms, she always whipped my butt on our shopping trips.  I went home exhausted every time. 

Last year, in a departure from tradition, I drove, I parked, I helped her with her oxygen and her walker.  I figured out the location of stores she wanted to visit.  I stood beside her as she sat on the tiny seat affixed to her walker.  I was in charge of this shopping trip and the significance of that fact saddened me.  I'm not an in-charge kind of person.  I like someone else to take control and make decisions and someone always had. 

At one point we were taking one of our many rests, and a former neighbor stopped by to chat.  She had a friend with her who lived near my grandmother but had never met her.  I remember thinking how sad that this woman was seeing only the elderly frail version of my grandmother and not the energetic, always interesting, artistic and elegantly attired version.  I could see in the woman's face that she was completely indifferent to meeting my grandmother and I thought how pervasive it is that people overlook and ignore one another, especially those older than themselves. 

My grandmother and I hit Macy's on one of our last stops.  She was pretty tired at this point and was inadvertently knocking merchandise off the racks as I scurried behind her picking it up.  She bought a cute pair of shoes and there was a mistake when the cashier rang it up.  The reason escapes me, but she had to ring it up again.  My grandmother sat down while I handled the transaction.  I told my grandmother twice to check her credit card bill when it came later in the month to make sure they hadn't double-charged her.  

There was a funny moment for both of us in the restroom when Grandmama couldn't get out of the stall for a second.  We both laughed once she got the handle turned.  She said she was just starting to panic and I said that the thought crossed my mind that I'd have to crawl underneath the stall on my belly to rescue her. 

I drove her to her house and she sat on the couch looking small and tired.  I hugged her and wondered if I'd ever see her alive again. 

I didn't. 

I don't know if she ever wore the shoes or ever saw the credit card bill.  She died a month later. 

This year has been filled with the firsts that we all experience when we lose a loved one:  the first birthday of my life without my grandmother, the first spring, summer and fall, and of course the first holidays.  I've been thinking about her a lot lately.  I'm coming up on what would have been her 90th birthday (coincidentally, the same day as Kari's mom's birthday)--January 7.  She died on January 30, 2010.

I haven't handled the grief in my life very well.  Still working on trying to feel it and not stuff it.   I'm  finding myself repeating the mantra, "I remember you.  I remember you. I remember you."  

May it be so. 

...what lesbians really do in bed?  I'll tell you.  Last night, the two goofballs who live in my house broke into a spontaneous chorus of "Sixteen Going On Seventeen" from The Sound of Music.  The dogs covered their ears. 

And then we went to sleep.

Sometimes our utter gayness surprises even me. 

So the last few months have been rather dreadful.  My grandmother died suddenly at the end of January.  I've been feeling the full force of grief, which is unusual for me.  As I've mentioned in earlier posts, I'm a feelings stuffer.  However, I've been doing less of that in the last few months.  I've cried nearly every day and can't stop thinking about her and my grandfather, who now are both gone and in the ground.  I've been dreading this for years.  They were both such great people and the gold standard for grandparents.  They always, always made me feel loved and appreciated and seemed to genuinely enjoy spending time with me.  What a gift that has been for me.

But, unfortunately, it hasn't been only about my grandmother.

On top of the grief from losing this extraordinary person, my father decided that the day she was buried was a good time to try and talk to me about his wife.  He was openly hostile and angry with me.  I've managed to avoid this woman for nine years, which has only recently become a problem.  I gather that she gave him an ultimatum: you're not to have anything to do with her until she accepts me.  This explains why he only calls me when he's away from home, usually driving.

He had failed to show up at the funeral home, or the funeral.  This was a shock to all of us.  The first thing he said to my mom when he found out that she was divorcing him was, "Can I still go to your mother's funeral?"  He always liked my grandmother and she liked him.  After my father moved out into his own place, while waiting for his mistress to divorce her own husband, my grandmother---his mother-in-law!---cooked him dinners that he would pick up on his way home.  She knew he wasn't eating.  

So him not showing up to pay his respects was salt in an old wound. 

But enough about that.  Or him.  On a brighter note, because that's what I'm hanging onto these days, before we made the trip to West Virginia for the funeral, I went to Talbot's to buy Kari and myself some appropriate funeral clothing.

Here's the thing:  we both have church lady suits in various sizes, but our respective weights fluctuate so much, that at any given time, the suit that actually fits might be several years out-of-date.  And it's important to both my mother and me that we represent the family in a presentable way and not look like a bunch of hayseeds when we're going to see people we haven't seen in years.  Funerals are strangely social events, at least they are where I come from. 

Kari sent a note with instructions for me regarding what she wanted.  It reads:

pants, not skirts

jacket--long is better to cover hips

blouse

dark colors

tasteful, tailored, not funky

v-neck, not rounded

collars, not collarless

hot color blouses okay--hot pink, etc. No red. Maroon, purple--ok.

NO puffy sleeves (I will kill you.)

Stiff material, nothing that will show the shape of my fat ass

Somehow, the sales clerk got the idea that I was buying a suit for my aunt.  I'm not sure how she got that idea, but I didn't disabuse her of the notion.  

I also did not buy anything with puffy sleeves.

I've done very little with or for my church in the last year or so.  I thought I would find my mojo again, once I rested a little and recovered from the cyclical burnout endemic to church-lady-hood.  

I'm not there yet.

I no longer feel burned out.  And I've slowly started to re-engage:  I indicated an interest in serving communion on a regular basis;  my Nominating Committee duties are calling me back (this afternoon, in fact;  I'm currently, right this very moment, putting off making what I consider to be difficult calls asking for folks to come back on Session, Deacons and Trustees' Boards);  the Shema Circle meditation retreat is in a couple of weeks;  I spent a few hours this morning, along with tons of volunteers, cleaning the church.  

I'm re-entering, ever so tentatively.  But it's only in body.  

I'm not really sure what my problem is.  I'm in a calmer place about the anti-gay language in the Book of Order that went un-changed last year.  It doesn't seem as important in light of the events in my professional and personal life the last few months.  

Spiritually-speaking, I'm in a good place;  I meditate every day and frequently experience that much-sought-after sacred connection and connectedness.  

But the church thing---I'm just not sure what's going on.  

And I guess I won't figure it out this afternoon.

I've got to make those calls.

And negative crazy talkers don't help much.  

This is how I define "crazy talker": someone you've only just met who rambles on and on in a disjointed fashion, using way too many details, including the first names of people you've never heard of, and who fails to see the look of dawning horror in your eyes that says, "Oh, shit.  I've got to get  away from this person or I might scream. Out loud."

I meet a lot of these people.  Perhaps I'm giving off a "I'm-a-good-listener" vibe.  I am, indeed, a good listener and I like people and I like to talk to people one-on-one.  

But I've recently decided that negativity, especially in my currently vulnerable (read: unemployed) state is bad for my health and my emotional well-being.

I'm trying not to read the comments on the online edition of our local newspaper, which are almost as bad as Youtube comments.  Which are very, very bad.

For awhile, I avoided my beloved Rachel Maddow's show;  during the health care debates, the toxicity of the discourse really got to me.  I've since gone back.  I can't stay away from Rachel.

Mostly, I'm trying to monitor any and all negative sentiment that I may feel, or say. 

And it's hard. Really hard. The meditation and obsessive exercise is helping a lot. Having a super-duper emotionally supportive spouse helps a lot.  Connecting online with friends and family helps a lot.

But it's still a daily struggle.  

And running into a crazy talker at my beloved Tai Chi class is not a good thing for me. I'll have to figure out a way to avoid her without appearing to avoid her.  

As facile as it sounds, my mantra has to be: "only happy thoughts."

Now, if I can just stop blogging negativity...